


This Kind of Trouble

by PrincessBethoc



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-10-13 16:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessBethoc/pseuds/PrincessBethoc
Summary: "And when I start to try to tell you, that's when you have to tell me, hey, this kind of trouble's only just begun." ~ 'Why' (Annie Lennox)Zelda Spellman always insists that Sabrina leave mortals to wade through their lives without interference, but she didn't always abide by her own rules. Both action and inaction have consequences. People are capable of committing terrible atrocities. Life isn't fair. But love never grows in vain, and nobody knows that better than Zelda. It was learning it that almost killed her.





	1. Round and round, two by two, we went around the rules

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be an exploration of possible reasons Zelda is so determined that witches keep out of mortal lives. I always thought she must have tried it herself once. So this will be a multi-chapter fic on how that might've gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Round and round, two by two, we went around the rules." ~ 'Rules' (Jayme Dee)

**_February 1972_ **

Zelda Spellman walks alone. Hilda waits at home for her return, but there is no rush. She takes the longer path home, finding it pleasant to walk in open air after being in a room with a labouring mother. The baby is perfectly healthy, as is the woman who gave birth, but it’s always a rush of blood to the head, a delivery. It’s living on the edge of her nerves, and even Zelda is not arrogant enough to discount the role of good fortune in her success rate. She is, of course, skilled, but she is not infallible. For everyone around her, she pretends she is, but she is not.

It’s a long road home, she finds, as darkness begins to fall. Ice already coats the ground. It has not melted from the night before. That particular chill of a mounting snowfall nips at Zelda’s face, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it’s rather nice to feel the frost in the air.

Not that it’s at all unsafe – anyone who dares harm Zelda Spellman will always have their work cut out for them – but there is a rather eerie feeling around the house she now passes. She knows mortals live there; she has seen a few of them but they never speak. She rather gets the impression there’s some troubled dynamics within that household. The children don’t run when they’re outside. They don’t laugh or play. They follow the women obediently, like they daren’t act their age. It’s bizarre for any mortal child so young to be so…controlled.

The smallest woman Zelda has seen outside that house – she must surely be less than five feet in height – carries two buckets of coal. The two girls trail behind her, dragging huge sacks filled with logs. A man watches them from an upstairs window, apparently with no inclination to help them. The youngest girl, who must only be about five years of age, slips on the ice and falls on her face. Behind her, the sack snags on a large stone and rips open; the logs spill out onto the path.

Nobody goes to her. Not her mother. Not even her sister. She wails in fright and pain; perhaps she is hurt by her fall. Zelda steps backwards so that she watches them from behind the trunk of a nearby tree.

The young woman finally turns her head to look at the little girl. She has a look of total fear in her eyes, like she’s been defeated a hundred times over. “Maisie, get your sister up,” she snaps impatiently.

The older girl, though she must only be a year or so older than her sister, tries with one hand to help the little one up, but the girl seems to be injured. “It hurts!” she sobs loudly. “Leave me alone, Maisie!”

“Be quiet!” hisses Maisie. “Get up before she catches you!”

Whoever ‘she’ is, both the children and the woman seem frightened by the very thought of her presence. That much is obvious in that defeated woman’s pallor when ‘she’ is mentioned.

Some relief comes to Zelda as another woman, about fifteen years older than the first, appears at the front door. That relief is quickly smothered by horror and disgust as the woman hauls the little girl up by the scruff of the neck and roars at her, “Stupid girl! It’s barely a scratch. Stop crying and get this cleaned up!” But the girl does not stop crying. Zelda decides she probably can’t, which is completely normal for a child so young when they fall in this way.

The woman, however, draws her hand back to slap the girl. Zelda halts the hand in motion; the woman looks momentarily baffled as the girl cowers and the hand does not move. Rather than let them see her confusion, she drops the girl back down onto the ice and snarls, “Clean it up, girl, and get inside!” She turns on the young woman and Maisie. “Leave her. Start the kitchen fire.” From inside the house, a baby screams. “That cursed child of yours! Does he _ever_ stop?!” she shouts at the young woman.

She goes inside. The woman and Maisie obey her and follow her indoors without looking back at their fallen comrade; the door slams violently shut.

The little girl scrambles clumsily to her feet and starts to gather the scattered logs back into a pile. She regains her composure, her sobs dying out as she works. Zelda steps out from behind the tree so that the little girl may see her. “Can I help you, ma’am?” the little girl calls out uncertainly.

“You’re bleeding,” Zelda replies, just loud enough for the girl to hear.

“It’s okay. Doesn’t matter.” Zelda stiffens slightly. “Better get the wood in for Auntie Rosannah.” Auntie Rosannah, Zelda realises, is the woman who had manhandled this poor child.

Zelda stares at the girl. “What may I call you, girl?”

“Rosie.”

She looks straight at the gash in Rosie’s shin; she must have hit a stone or log when she fell. But she mustn’t. Zelda mustn’t do what she so wants to. The adults inside that house will only ask what happened to the cut if she returns with it healed. She must not interfere in the lives of mortals. She absolutely must not.

“Got to find another bag,” Zelda hears Rosie grumble. Rosie limps away behind the house, from whence she must have come with her load, and Zelda gazes hopelessly at the ripped canvas sack abandoned on the frozen ground. She looks up at the window from where the man had been watching; he is gone. Nobody else is at any window.

But she must not. She must not help Rosie. She must not help this injured, neglected, abused little girl. She is not to interfere in the affairs of any mortal.

What harm can it really do? That girl is so scared of her aunt that she would never dare mention anything out of the ordinary to her. The mother – or who Zelda presumes is her mother – barely pays her any attention and would surely dismiss it as the wild imagination of a child.

No. She must not.

But Rosie is injured, Zelda reasons, and even if she weren’t, no child should have to drag their own body weight or more behind them with perfectly able adults around.

So from where she stands, Zelda repairs the sack, puts the logs back into it, and moves it up the steps to the front door. It’s such basic magic, and can be explained away if Rosie does ask questions. And it’s a good thing she does, because Rosie returns from behind the house empty handed; Auntie Rosannah would lose her temper if Rosie took the logs in two at a time and kept opening the front door. That’s how Zelda justifies her interference. It’s flimsy, but it’s enough to soothe Zelda’s guilt for the moment.

She looks right into Rosie’s face, silently telling her she must never speak of this. Rosie seems to understand. “Thank you, ma’am,” she says, obviously hesitant to address a woman who had just done the utterly inexplicable.

“You are most welcome, Rosie,” Zelda replies, smiling gently. “Make sure your mother cleans and dresses that cut, please. We don’t want it getting dirty, do we?”

“Yes,” Rosie says with a nod. “I’ll ask Mother to help me.”

“Good.” Zelda opens the door. “Run along, before your Auntie Rosannah comes out again.”

Rosie goes to the door and turns to smile at Zelda, before she pulls the newly repaired sack into the house. Zelda gently closes the door behind her.

As soon as Rosie is out of sight, Zelda feels sick to her stomach. She has just broken an ancient rule, that a witch must never involve herself or her power in the life of a mortal. And Zelda, _Zelda Spellman_ , has done just that, in the life of a child. A child. Children are curious little creatures. Satan knows they ask questions incessantly, though lack the judgemental ways learned by adults.

She no longer takes her time in getting home. Now she hurries, craving the safety of those surroundings she knows so well. It’s dark when she finally sees her house and can calm herself with its shelter.

Of all the stupid things to do, she has to choose to do _that_. If Hilda had done the same, Zelda would probably kill her and bury her in the yard. She would not tolerate such behaviour from her sister, therefore she must not tolerate it from herself. She briefly considers punishing herself, but decides Hilda would know and ask her why. Inconvenient as it is, Hilda always knows.

When Hilda meets her at the door, Zelda deliberately avoids meeting her gaze. “Boy or girl?” asks Hilda.

“Hmm?” Zelda mumbles.

“The baby. Is it a boy or girl?”

“Oh,” Zelda says, remembering only now the reason she had been away from here in the first place. “Boy. Both he and his mother are perfectly healthy. No complications.”

“Good,” Hilda says, her smile wide. “I’ve made-”

Zelda cuts Hilda off before she can announce what she has made for dinner. “Actually, I am very tired. I think I shall go straight to bed.”

Hilda frowns slightly but she does not argue. “Alright. I’ll keep some aside in case you’re hungry later.”

Deeming it unkind to tell Hilda she would not be hungry at all tonight, Zelda says, “Thank you, Hilda.”

“No problem, Zelds. Sleep well!”

Zelda does not sleep well at all. She stares up through the darkness at the ceiling, searching for the reason she had done something so reckless. She’s seen children hurt and mistreated before and refrained from intervening, so why was this incident so different? What had compelled her to even stay and watch? She should always walk past mortals. She should ignore their affairs; she cannot partake in things she is ignorant to, after all.

The thing is, Rosie is such a small child. She’s pale and skinny and obviously worn down, just like her mother. Maisie, the older one, seems a little more robust, but Rosie is easier broken. Zelda can see it in her. Can she knowingly ignore a breaking child?

And that Rosannah…she seems an abhorrent woman. She treats those children so coldly, so cruelly, that Zelda wonders if she has some sort of madness. Normal mortals do not treat their young in such a way. Rosannah’s eyes have a coldness in them that unnerves even Zelda. A pathological lack of empathy, perhaps, or is she just plain evil? That’s not a word Zelda employs regularly, but it does apply to certain beings. Mortals seem most susceptible to it.

When she closes her eyes, however, it’s not Rosie she sees. It’s not Maisie, either, or that vile woman Rosannah. It’s the woman whose name Zelda does not know. The mother to those children. The woman whose spirit is so broken that she did nothing to help Rosie, or stop another woman mistreating her. It’s the look of despair that affects Zelda so. That poor woman has nothing. Her clothes are patched and frayed and she is visibly underweight. She has the look of a woman who has given up on a fight, for she knows she can never win.

It’s not the children, Zelda knows now. It’s not Rosannah, either. It’s the mother. The nameless one. She isn’t capable of doing her job, and someone had to do it in that moment. It just so happens Zelda is the one who passed them when they needed help.

And though she knows she ought not to have gone anywhere near them, she cannot say she would not do the same thing again if presented with the same situation. However, she knows she must not do it again. There is a reason she is not to involve herself; it never bodes well when mortals start to whisper of magic and witches.

Before she sleeps, Zelda makes a pact with herself to never intervene again, no matter how tempting the idea is. It’s only in her dreams that she begins listing the exceptions to that rule.


	2. I may be mad, I may be blind, I may be viciously unkind, but I still know what you're thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I may be mad, I may be blind, I may be viciously unkind, but I still know what you're thinking." ~ 'Why' (Annie Lennox)

“Forget about it,” she tells herself. “Just forget about them.”

And yet, Zelda still watches the house every time she passes. She scrutinises the children; in addition to Rosie and Maisie, there are two boys – one younger than them and one older – and a baby who must only be a few weeks old. There’s a man, and Rosannah, and the mother to those children. Every so often, there are older people who visit – perhaps the adults’ parents.

It’s when the snow starts to fall at the end of February that she happens upon it.

The woman is not running, but she does not dawdle, either. She’s going somewhere, and she’s going fast. If not for the frantic look in her eyes, Zelda would have let her pass. It dawns on Zelda that this woman isn’t running to anywhere. She’s running _from_ something. Zelda reaches out and takes her gently but firmly by the arms. “Where are you going?” she asks.

“Who are you?” asks the woman. She’s so small, perhaps six inches shorter than Zelda, and underweight to the point her cheekbones protrude outwards, giving her face a rather skeletal quality.

“My name is Zelda,” she replies. “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look healthy enough to be going anywhere in such a hurry.”

“I have to go,” she says. “I must go.”

“Where exactly is it you’re going? Perhaps I can escort you.” The expression on the woman’s face says all Zelda needs to know: she does not know where she is going. “May I at least know your name?”

“Leonie. My name’s Leonie.”

Leonie, Zelda notes now, carries a small bag, filled with food and what seems to be money rolled up in hair ties. She _is_ running. She’s running with some food, some money and the clothes on her back. She doesn’t even have her children with her. “Are you alright, Leonie?” asks Zelda; she tries to keep her voice calm and soothing but cannot be sure how successful she is in that.

“I’m fine,” answers Leonie. She looks over her shoulder and then back to Zelda. “Please, let me be on my way.”

When Zelda catches Leonie’s hand, a rush of fear blasts through her very core. Startled, she drops Leonie’s hand. “Why don’t you come with me? I’m sure my sister would be happy to give you a little herbal tea to ease your anxiety, and perhaps a nice meal. She’s a better cook than I am. Don’t tell I her I said that,” she adds with a smile.

Why is she doing this? This is a mortal’s problem, and therefore not Zelda’s to solve. But this woman seems rather breakable, and something about her urges Zelda to do what is kind rather than what is lawful.

Hesitantly, Leonie returns Zelda’s smile, and she knows she’s got through to her. Whether Leonie really does trust her, Zelda cannot possibly know, but to have her understand that she is not dangerous is a start. “Where are your children, Leonie?” Zelda asks gently as they walk back towards the house.

“They’re with my husband’s sisters,” she says. “He’s away just now, so…”

Zelda doesn’t find out what Leonie’s husband’s absence means, for that sentence is never finished. It falls silent to evaporate into the air, falling around them like dust from the sky above. “Do you all live together? You, your husband, his sisters and the children?”

Leonie nods her head. “At the moment, yes.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

No answer. And really, Zelda decides, the lack of an answer to that question is an answer in itself.

“I live with my sister,” she says; there’s a need to fill the silence that Zelda has never known before.

“Do you get on?”

“We have our moments,” Zelda half-laughs, thinking of the last time she had lost her temper with Hilda and killed her. “It’s only natural for siblings to have their…differences.”

“Not like this family,” mutters Leonie. “Dysfunctional, to say the least.”

“Dysfunctional in what way?”

“Sometimes I think they don’t want to get along at all. It’s like they enjoy hurting each other.”

Zelda internally cringes as she recalls the pleasure she always draws from reaping her revenge on Hilda. It always feels like vindication to bury her sister in that plot of ground. But that’s momentary madness, and she knows Hilda will come to no permanent harm. She doesn’t continuously set out to hurt her sister. Who would?

“And what about you?” asks Zelda. “How do you feel about your husband’s family? Do they find joy in harming _you_?”

“I…” Leonie begins, but again she does not complete her thought. Not aloud, at least.

A car pulls up behind them. The window opens and a woman speaks to them. “Get in the car, Leonie.” When Zelda looks closer, she sees that it is Rosannah, the dragon of a woman who treats her little niece so appallingly.

Leonie seems frightened, like a tiny deer caught in the headlights of an articulated lorry with failing brakes. Since she’s already neck-deep as it is, Zelda decides to lie to Rosannah. “Actually, I was just taking Leonie up to my house for some tea,” she says. She cannot keep the iciness out of her words as she speaks to a woman she does not know and yet already despises. “I need some advice.”

“Advice on what?” Rosannah demands suspiciously.

“I’d rather not talk about that, if you don’t mind,” Zelda replies coldly. “That is for me to discuss with my sister and Leonie in the privacy of my kitchen.”

Rosannah glares at them, like she would love nothing more than to knock them both down with the car. She seems to consider her answer very carefully. When she speaks, it is directly to Leonie. “Be home before dinner, or you won’t eat at all.”

Taken aback, Zelda watches as Rosannah closes the car window and tears up the road without another word. She looks down at Leonie to see her reaction, but Leonie doesn’t give one. It’s as if she expects this from Rosannah, and sees no use in fighting it. How run down is this woman? She refuses to stand up for herself. She doesn’t even try.

“Why must she be so cruel?” asks Zelda.

“Who, Rosannah?” Leonie is obviously surprised by that question. “It’s just the way she is. They’re all the same.”

Zelda understands ‘they’ to mean Leonie’s husband and his sisters. “What about your children? Will they grow up to be like their father and their aunts?”

“God, I hope not,” Leonie says. “The world doesn’t need any carbon copies of those three.”

At home, it is Hilda who meets them at the front door. It’s rather surreal, Zelda notes, to have their roles reversed. Hilda directs Leonie to the kitchen and then rounds on Zelda. “What in Satan’s name are you doing?!” she hisses. “Do you even _know_ this mortal?”

“I’ve been…” Zelda hesitates, looking for the correct way to phrase this without alarming Hilda. “I have been observing Leonie. Her family, too.”

“Why?!”

“To ensure their safety. The woman she lives with is a despicable, abusive-”

“And you know this how, exactly?”

“I can tell from the way she speaks to Leonie and the children.”

“And who is this woman to her?”

“Her sister-in-law.”

“Why are you taking her _here_ , Zelds?!”

“She was running away. She was leaving without her children. I’ve brought her here so she can have some tea and gather her thoughts. She will realise that she cannot leave her children where they are unsafe.”

Hilda doesn’t object any further. Not verbally, at least. She does shoot Zelda a few disapproving looks as she makes some calming tea, though, but Leonie never sees them. After all, Leonie is not to blame for Zelda’s decisions, and Hilda is well aware of that. “Here you are, Leonie, dear,” Hilda says sweetly as she places a cup of tea in front of the mortal.

“Thank you,” Leonie murmurs. She behaves like she is afraid this kindness comes with a price, unaware that nothing is expected of her in return for some tea and temporary refuge.

Zelda takes a second cup from Hilda and smiles reassuringly at Leonie. “You said your husband is away at the moment,” she reminds Leonie. “Where has he gone?”

Leonie opens her mouth but closes it again without speaking. There’s a way about her that tells Zelda this is a woman who keeps secrets. A secret keeper who is about to crack. They all do in the end, don’t they? How many people can truly say that they have taken their secrets to the grave? Hilda sits down at the table and looks at Leonie, and then – more accusingly – at Zelda. “Do you need help, love?” she says.

Zelda stares coldly at Hilda for her interference, but Leonie just looks down into her cup of tea. Spurred on by Hilda’s words, though, Zelda adds, “We may be able to help you, if that is what you wish, Leonie.”

“My husband is in prison,” Leonie finally admits. “He was given thirty days for his part in a bar brawl.”

Zelda shares a dark look with her sister. If the husband is a brawler outside the house, what is he like behind closed doors? “Are you left to live with his sisters?” Zelda asks gently.

Leonie nods her head once.

“Forgive me for saying so, but from what I have seen of Rosannah, I cannot imagine being able to live with both of them if they are in any way alike.”

Hilda frowns at Zelda; she notes to herself that she probably ought to tell Hilda about that evening she had intervened in Rosannah’s cruelty. However, that would mean confessing that she had used her powers in the presence and in the life of a mortal. No matter how small an incident it had been, the coven would surely take a dim view on it. Even Zelda herself took a dim view on it.

The air is suddenly dense with everything Leonie does not say. Her silence is louder than anything she might have said aloud. Her face is pale, and it only now in the low light of the Spellmans’ kitchen that Zelda realises just how thin Leonie is. Not thin like someone who watches what they eat, but thin like someone who doesn’t get enough to eat at all.

As Leonie shrinks into her chair, it hits Zelda. Everything Leonie thinks is based on fear and frustration, and therefore she cannot be trusted in her decision-making. If she and those poor children are to remain safe, something must be done. It cannot be left to this one woman to keep them sheltered in an impossible situation. Leonie’s discomfort as they dance around the subject of the life she leads is almost palpable. Zelda can almost touch it in the space between them. It’s no surprise when Leonie looks at the clock and says, “I must get home. Dinner is at five. We eat early.”

Zelda decides not to stop her. It might only drive her to even less rational actions. “I shall walk you,” Zelda offers as they get their feet.

“No,” Leonie says quickly. “No, it’s probably best I go home alone.”

Hilda gives Zelda a look of warning, reminding her not to push her good fortune beyond its limits. “Very well.” Leonie cannot leave this place without some sort of help at her back. More to the point, Zelda cannot allow her to walk back into the presence of that monster Rosannah unprotected.

Zelda has never done this before, and she does not think she could ever do it again. It’s a snap decision, made in a moment of empathy and fear. She puts her hand on Leonie’s back and, as they cross the foyer to the front door, Zelda hastily whispers, “Keep her alive, come to her defence, leave it not to chance, she shall come to no harm _._ ”

“Pardon?”

Zelda looks down at Leonie. “Oh, I didn’t speak. It may be my nephew in the next room, talking to the cat,” she invents wildly. “If you need any help, please do come back. You know where to find us now.”

At the door, Leonie gazes up at Zelda and says sincerely, “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

With Leonie out of the house, Zelda closes the door, leans back and lets out her breath. Hilda is there, staring at her in disbelief. “Have you just cast a spell? On a _mortal_?”

Barely able to believe it herself, Zelda cannot meet her sister’s eyes. “I…I rather think I have.”


	3. You could have it all, my empire of dirt, I will let you down, I will make you hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You could have it all, my empire of dirt, I will let you down, I will make you hurt." ~ 'Hurt' (Johnny Cash)

The days pass. March comes and it goes. Leonie’s husband is released from prison; Zelda hears him bellow at the children one evening as she passes the house.

At the beginning of April, Zelda sees him. He has his hands on his wife but, to Zelda’s guilty satisfaction, he cannot strike her. His hands just won’t do it. He cannot even shout in her face, for every time he tries it, he starts to choke. He coughs when he wants to yell. That only makes him angrier, and yet there’s nothing he can do to Leonie. The spell Zelda cast over her is doing its job, at least.

Leonie even visits Hilda and Zelda again. She sits and she talks. She drinks her tea. She even laughs. Her smile is beautiful. It lights the entire kitchen. It reflects against the windows and the dust in the air, until it dazes Zelda. Hilda even gives her an uncomfortably knowing look as Leonie tells them of a night she had spent in jail herself, though for something her sister-in-law Margaret had done. But she laughs about it like it’s normal. Like it is nothing worth holding a grudge about.

This is the most incredible thing about Leonie. Despite the harsh surroundings in which she spends most of her life, she is forgiving. She laughs in the face of madness. It may be that she is only able to do this while her husband and his sisters can bring her to no harm, but that she can do it at all is a great feat.

Just as the sun shines, so does Zelda. She shines with the knowledge that she facilitated that wonderful smile. It’s because of her that Leonie has some safety and some freedom in her life. How long it shall endure, Zelda cannot say. It may last forever. She certainly hopes to Satan that it does. The very thought of it failing…after going so far as to cast a spell on a mortal, Zelda doesn’t believe she could take it if something were to happen to Leonie.

Fortunately, however, it seems Leonie is at relative peace. Her heart is not as guarded as once it was, though she still cowers behind her defences. Perhaps Leonie believes she has that well-hidden – and she might, to the rest of the world – but Zelda can see it so clearly. Not a particularly tactile person, she feels she should hold Leonie and shelter her from all that is wrong and cruel in this life. Who else will do it?

When she is gone from the house, Hilda rounds on Zelda. “You’re too attached to her,” she accuses, though she does not say it with unkindness.

“Nonsense,” scoffs Zelda. “I barely see her.” That is not strictly true; she makes a conscious detour so that she may pass the house most days.

“But when you do, you’re all gooey-eyed over her!” Hilda exclaims. Her expression turns suddenly solemn as she asks, “Do you _like_ her, Zelds?”

“Don’t you? She’s a perfectly nice woman.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Hilda replies. “Do you have…feelings…for her?”

“Like I said, I barely see her,” Zelda retorts coldly. “I cannot have feelings for someone I do not know.”

“But you do know her, don’t you? You act like you know her.”

“Don’t be silly, sister,” Zelda says. The best way she can think of to shut Hilda down is to scorn her theories. “What opportunity have I to get to know a mortal?”

Hilda’s gaze remains suspicious. No, not suspicious. Concerned. Worried. Worried for the sister she knows is normally the strictest, least emotional, coldest woman in her life. From an empathetic point of view, she can see why Hilda is unnerved by Zelda even caring about what happens to any mortal, child or adult. They are not her problem, after all. That is the stance she has always taken.

“I can’t explain it,” Hilda says quietly. “You’re my sister. I know when you’re attached to someone. Satan knows it’s a rare occurrence. Which is why I _know_ something has changed. You’re…” she continues, but she hesitates.

“I’m what, exactly?” demands Zelda heatedly.

“You’re…kinder,” she decides, “with her. Kinder than I’ve ever seen you with anyone.”

Zelda opens her mouth, but she cannot speak. She had not been expecting that adjective. She’d been expecting to be called foolish or naïve or irresponsible. Not _kind_. That has never been a word Zelda would associate with herself.

Hilda steps forward and looks up at Zelda with that sisterly love that cannot be equalled. “But Zelda, this will end in tears. It always does, doesn’t it? That woman is married. She has children. She has a family. You can’t be anything other than her friend, and I’m not sure you should even be that.”

There it is. The sensible answer to all of this that Zelda should have the intelligence to give. It _is_ foolish and naïve and irresponsible. She tells herself that often. It isn’t that she doesn’t know that; it’s that she puts Leonie’s safety over her own misgivings. She is trying to do the right thing here.

A stone the size of an apple lodges itself into Zelda’s throat. The idea that she must keep away from Leonie, that she must leave the spell to do its work, is heart-wrenching. Leonie needs a friend as much as she needs protection, if not more. She needs allies and confidantes – a circle of people in which she can place her trust. Even a blind person would be able to see that in the way that family interacts. Leonie had given the perfect descriptor for it: dysfunctional. Utterly dysfunctional.

Zelda blinks her tears back, looking at the ceiling so they cannot fall.

“I know you mean well,” says Hilda. “I know you’re just trying to do what’s best for Leonie. But are you _sure_ it really is what’s best for her? What about her children? What about her husband?”

“That man does not deserve a second thought in anyone’s mind,” Zelda snaps. She has seen him angry and she does not like him. Not at all. He is brutish and vile. Of that, she is almost certain. “His feelings do not come into this.”

“Yes, Zelda, they do! He takes his feelings out on Leonie, and then Leonie gets hurt!”

“Leonie is protected. Or do you doubt my spellcasting?”

Hilda pulls a glower at her. “You know that’s not what I’m getting at. You’re being deliberately dense now. There’s no point in talking to you about this, is there?”

“None at all,” Zelda replies, unable to smother the smug smile that floats to her lips as she turns her back on her sister. When did it become so difficult to get the better of Hilda? It is usually quite simple to outwit Hilda, really; her main concern is only that those around her are whole and healthy. And Zelda is…

That’s where the ferocity in Hilda comes from. Zelda is neither whole nor healthy. If she were, she would never have cast a spell on a mortal woman or allowed herself to feel any affection for her. And knowing that gives Hilda a strength Zelda has never seen in her sister before now.

“Yes, well,” Hilda calls after her. Zelda stops in her tracks. “You had better pray to Satan that you’re not doing more harm than good.”

Eyes closed, pained but confident that Hilda has said all she will say on the matter, Zelda proceeds forwards to the stairs. She cannot listen to any more of Hilda’s righteousness. Or is it more that she just can’t bear to hear Hilda being right?

* * *

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

At first, Zelda thinks the wind is making the house thump and knock in the night. It stops and Zelda lays back down to sleep.

“Auntie Zee!” Ambrose Spellman shouts. “Auntie Zee, come quick!”

Zelda leaps out of bed and pulls on her night robe. “What in the name of Satan are you shouting for, Ambrose?” Zelda calls when she reaches the top of the stairs. “It’s the middle of the night!”

And then she sees them. She sees them and her blood freezes and her heart stops and…and she does not know what to do. How can that be? She always knows what to do. She prides herself on it. Instinct takes her feet down the stairs to them.

Leonie’s face is whiter than chalk but greyer than the road. It’s the face of someone in shock, in fear, in peril. But she can’t be in peril, Zelda reminds herself. She is protected.

The two girls, Rosie and Maisie, stand beside their mother. Zelda does not know why the sons aren’t with them. And in Leonie’s arms is a bundle of blankets that Zelda knows is the baby. “We had an argument, me and Rosannah, and Simon woke up. He started crying and she shook him,” Leonie cries. Zelda finds it rather difficult to make out what she says through her tears and her panic. “She shook him and he’s not moving. I don’t think he’s breathing!”

“Ambrose, go and wake Hilda.”

“Auntie Zee-”

“Don’t argue,” she snaps. “Go and wake your aunt, then come back and take Maisie and Rosie to the drawing room.”

Ambrose looks at Zelda for a moment, his expression one of confusion, but he does obey. He runs up the stairs, two at a time, and returns less than a minute later with Hilda trailing groggily at his heels. “What’s wrong?” Hilda asks with a wide yawn.

“Take the girls, Ambrose,” Zelda order him. He sees the urgency and he does as he is told.

“Come on,” he says kindly to Rosie and Maisie. “We’ll sit by the fire and warm you up.”

They are silent as they follow him in nightdresses and well-worn boots. Once they are out of sight, Zelda gently takes the baby from Leonie’s arms. He doesn’t move. His face is turning pale and his lips are turning blue. She rushes him to the kitchen and places him softly on the table. The only thing she can do is try to revive him the mortal way. It crosses her mind that there are ways a witch may be able to heal him, however long the odds would remain, but she cannot do that. She screams at herself that she must not, she must _never_ …

It’s futile. She can tell that from the feel of his skin and the lack of response as she gently tries to force his heart and lungs back into operation. That doesn’t stop her trying, for she cannot allow Leonie’s baby to die. She had vowed that Leonie shall come to no harm, after all. However, she never bargained for this. She never protected the children. And she should have. They are all Leonie has in this world and Zelda has not protected them like she has protected Leonie.

And so she keeps trying. Despite the futility of attempting to resuscitate this poor boy, despite the extension of the pain she knows it must cause Leonie to watch this, she continues. She presses his chest, praying to Satan that somehow he can make this child’s heart beat again.

“Zelda,” Hilda whispers. Zelda feels Hilda’s hand on hers. “Zelda, love, he’s gone. Look at him. He’s gone.”

“He can’t be,” Leonie sobs. “My baby…”

In a moment of weakness, Zelda runs from the room. She doesn’t stay to witness the destruction she has caused, or the heartache she has triggered. And it is her fault. It is her doing. She has killed a child. “Pray, Satan, please forgive me,” she weeps, her head against the wall. “Please, I knew not what would happen. I was trying to save her.”

Silence rings out through the house. Silence that deafens and smothers Zelda until she must break it with the sound of her own pain. Her own failings. Her own reckless stupidity.


	4. Have a drink, if you like, to calm your nerve, once they're laid there in the ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Have a drink, if you like, to calm your nerve, once they're laid there in the ground." ~ 'Laid in the Ground' (The Wandering Hearts)

Zelda keeps herself where she stands. To go back into there and see that child, dead on the kitchen table…she cannot do that. The sight might break her, and Satan forbid she be the one who is shattered in all of this.

But it should be her who breaks. She did this, didn’t she? She is the one to blame for this. She must be. It can be no coincidence that the baby of a woman she cast a spell upon has ended up dead. If anyone should suffer, it is Zelda Spellman. It always is Zelda Spellman.

Hilda does not appear; Zelda is almost thankful for the necessity of someone accompanying Leonie. It allows her to weep where nobody can see her weakness. Her responsibility is to do what she can to fix this, but how in the world can it be fixed? A dead child cannot be remedied. That is one mistake that can never be undone, at least without breaking almost every witching law in existence. She can console Leonie all she wants but this will never leave her. How can it ever leave her in peace?

It’s Ambrose who approaches Zelda first. She does not know how long she has been alone. It might be mere minutes or it might be endless days. “Auntie Zee?” he asks her gently. “Auntie, are you crying?” Zelda wipes her eyes before she turns around to face him but there’s no hiding the redness in her eyes.

“Of course not,” she replies haughtily. “Are Rosie and Maisie alright?”

“Yes,” says Ambrose. “They’re warming up by the fire. They were absolutely freezing.”

Zelda stalks past Ambrose to the stairs; the last thing she needs is for her nephew see the worst of her. It is her role to teach him who to be, and yet all he seems to see her do is screw up like a pathetic, misguided child.

And the world is breaking under her feet as she hears the wails of that poor child’s mother echo through the house. Soon she is trying to run up through the air – the stairs are gone. Her own feet trip her up, and she is going nowhere. Is this how it feels to be a colossal failure? Trying to tread on air, all the while knowing that there is no escape?

“Aunt Zelda!” calls Ambrose. There is nothing left to do but surrender. She collapses to her knees on the landing; the enormity of what she has done crushes her into the floor. “Auntie Zee!” She vaguely registers Ambrose running up the stairs to her side. “What happened? Why are you so upset?”

“The baby,” Zelda whispers. “The baby is dead.”

Ambrose’s arm is around Zelda, pulling her in until she sits on the landing. She tries to fight him off but she does not possess the will or the strength to defy him. “I’m sorry, Auntie,” he says gently in her ear. “There was nothing you could do. I saw him myself – the child was long gone even when Leonie brought him here.”

She doesn’t tell him what she has done. She cannot bear to see his revulsion. Ambrose is her nephew, and he ought to look up to her for an example of how to live his life. She should be better than this, and he can never know that she is not. She doesn’t think she can bear for him to discover the truth about his aunt.

“Go and make sure those two girls are at peace, Ambrose,” she says. “I don’t know how we shall tell them their baby brother has died, but we must. I’d rather they were calm as long as they can be.”

When she finally looks Ambrose in the face, Zelda is startled by the concern she finds there. Why is he concerned for her when she is to blame for this catastrophe? “Will you be okay?” he asks her.

“I am fine,” Zelda tells him, sure to drip a coldness into her tone that will keep him from delving further into the evidence to the contrary.

Ambrose does not believe her – that much is apparent in the way he looks at her – but the coldness has done what she needs it to. He refrains from asking anything else. Instead of prying, he gently and silently helps Zelda to her feet. His eyes flit once more over her face before he squeezes her hand and leaves her.

Composure. She needs composure, or else she is worth nothing. Her moment of madness, of weakness, is over. It must be over, for there is a grieving mother in her kitchen and, mortal or witch, that woman deserves her comfort. She deserves the truth, Zelda reminds herself bitterly, but that is a matter for another day. She justifies her silence by telling herself she cannot deliver two blows to Leonie in one night. She will confess, one day. She will. She must.

The kitchen is quiet. It is not peaceful, though. No, it sounds like death.

Death and grief and fear and love and despair...all the things that break a soul. These are the things that can kill faster than any disease Zelda has ever seen. It occurs to her that she cannot recall ever feeling so much. The sheer volume of what wells up in her gut, while it has no place to go, is enough to kill her. But she will not die. Zelda Spellman will not die, no matter what this does to her.

Leonie stands over her baby son, tears cascading down her cheeks without a single murmur of a cry. “We have to go to a hospital, Leonie, love,” Hilda says kindly. “They’ll need to declare him.”

“But they’ll call the police!” Suddenly there is a frantic glint in Leonie’s eyes.

“As they should,” Zelda says, her tone firmer than Hilda’s. “There are repercussions for killing an infant.”

“We can’t! It’ll start war, Zelda, I’m telling you!”

Zelda freezes; to hear her name spoken with such desperation frightens the life out of her. “I’m a midwife,” she blurts out. “I may be able to steer their diagnosis.” Hilda stares at Zelda, her disbelief filling the silence between them.

“How? Doctors don’t listen to midwives, do they?!”

Zelda throws herself into one of the kitchen chairs and stares into the wood of the table. How can she do this? How can the suspicion be diverted from the baby being shaken to another cause of death? She’d heard of cases where children who were injured in car accidents showed similar injuries to a baby who was shaken…but that would be a gross act of madness on her part. She cannot believe she is even considering it.

“We can just bury him,” Leonie says tearfully. “Nobody really knows about him. He doesn’t need to be declared dead, or registered dead, or any of that. Just let them think he’s still alive.”

“What about your husband? Your family? What will you tell them?”

“I’ll tell them the baby died. It’s sad – tragic – but it happens. I’ll say we had a private funeral. Nobody need know anything.” She steps forwards and takes Zelda by the wrists. “Please, Zelda. Please help me.”

Her face is white. Zelda is actually a little surprised Leonie is still standing. Most would have fallen down in a heap by now. “I can’t see that working, dear,” Hilda tells her. “Someone is bound to find out, and then we’ll all be in trouble.”

Hilda is right. Zelda knows that, even if she would never dream of letting her sister know it. Not to mention how inconvenient it is that she is right; to let the child die in peace, unknown to everyone but them and his family, is preferable to any other option, despite the risk of discovery. Of course, Zelda would rather do it above board and say outright that Rosannah shook this infant to death, but what would be the consequence?

Would Leonie’s husband turn on her? Would she be allowed to keep her remaining children? And how would the other sister, Margaret, react? Could Zelda’s protection withstand all of that?

And so, she agrees. Zelda agrees to bury a mortal child on these premises. Against everything she knows to be right and wise, she does it. She leads Hilda and Leonie out by candlelight, Leonie carrying Simon in her arms, into the darkness. Zelda digs a grave. The scent of damp earth fills her lungs, as she silently begs Satan for forgiveness and understanding. She can barely hold it together when she steps backwards and examines her handiwork. The size of it is simply heartbreaking; nobody’s grave should be deeper than it is long.

Leonie kneels down with her son down into the grave, wrapped up warm in his blankets. “I love you, my boy,” she whispers. She places him down in the grave and throws a handful of dirt down onto his body. “I’m so sorry.”

Unable to keep her distance, Zelda catches Leonie’s hand in her own and squeezes softly. Leonie stays. She watches Zelda cover her baby son in dirt, and she allows Hilda to guide her into the house. “He will never be alone here,” Zelda says. “We shall plant a small tree for him.”

Hilda takes them to the drawing room, where Ambrose sits with the two girls. They run to their mother. Where none of the family watch her, Leonie is more open with her daughters. More maternal. She holds them close as she cries. “Rosie,” she gasps. “Maisie. Listen, to me, please. What you saw Auntie Rosannah do, you must never tell anyone of it.”

“But where is Simon, Mother?” Maisie asks.

“He’s at peace. He’s safe. We gave him a funeral. Laid him in the ground to rest.”

Maisie’s expression of shock tells Zelda that she is just old enough to understand what has happened. Rosie, however, gives nothing away. She doesn’t say if she understands, but Zelda knows she will never speak of it. The girl is scarred now, forever afraid of what human beings can and will do to one another.

“Mother, what will we say to Father?” Rosie whispers.

Leonie puts her fingers on Rosie’s face. “Oh, Rosie, you don’t need to tell your father anything. That’s my responsibility. All I need from you and your sister is for you to be good and kind to one another. Always.”

“Of course, Mother,” Maisie says. She takes Rosie’s hand; Zelda can scarcely believe these two little girls are able to grow up on demand like this.

Leonie kisses her daughters on their cheeks and hastily leaves the room. Ambrose steps out to go after her, but Zelda cannot allow him to. It is not up to him to try and fix this. She halts him with a look and follows Leonie herself, only to find the woman pacing the foyer almost manically, like the movement of her limbs is all that keeps her alive.

Instinct makes Zelda put her arms around Leonie’s body and hold her until she breaks; the wails of a grieving mother are muffled as they are screamed into Zelda’s chest. She hushes Leonie gently, rubbing her back. It is like hushing a broken child, but Leonie feels more fragile in her arms. The temptation to heal her with a spell is almost unbearable, but hasn’t this taught Zelda anything? She must not do that. As awful as it is, she must allow Leonie to grieve in the usual mortal way.

“You must come to us when you need us,” Zelda whispers, “and you must visit your son’s grave whenever you feel you need to.”

Leonie’s head nods against Zelda’s chest. “Thank you,” she mumbles.

Zelda says nothing more; she doesn’t trust herself to speak. She presses her face into Leonie’s hair and holds her tight until she calms down enough to go back to her children. Once she has her composure back, Leonie takes her daughters and she leaves. “Thank you for everything,” she says to Zelda, Hilda and Ambrose at the front door. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

“Let me drive you home,” offers Zelda.

“No, it’s best we walk. We have a few things to talk about,” she explains as she takes Rosie and Maisie by their hands.

Zelda nods her head without words. If she speaks, she might shatter, and that cannot happen in front of Leonie. She must wait until Leonie is out the door. And she does. She waits until that door slams and she lets the guilt and shame slice through her. Even for the sake of appearances, she cannot hold it together any longer. Her heart cracks in two and she lets out what sounds to her like a howl of misery, though she cannot possibly say how she sounds to anyone else.

Ambrose and Hilda hold her up. They keep her on her feet and sit her down at the kitchen table, to stare at the spot in which she had tried and failed to save an infant, to undo the damage she has done. She can never undo it.

Hilda places a glass of whiskey in front of her and says, “Drink this. Or I could make some of my tea? It’ll help. You’ll calm down.”

But Zelda cannot drink. She cannot do anything but cry. She has killed a child. Perhaps not directly, but if she had not cast that spell on Leonie, Rosannah would not have become frustrated enough to shake a baby.

There has never been a time where Zelda Spellman has hated herself more, nor will there ever be.


	5. Walk me home in the dead of night, I can't be alone with all that's on my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Walk me home in the dead of night, I can't be alone with all that's on my mind." ~ 'Walk Me Home' (Pink)

Zelda does not talk to anyone for days, not even her sister. What is there to talk about? Rather than answer that question, she avoids her family by walking out the house first thing in the morning and wandering the town until night falls and she must return home. She drinks coffee, hopping from diner to diner, slowly turning to hard drink as the evening draws in.

For at least a week, the only words she speaks are the orders to wait staff and bartenders. When she speaks, it seems people she cares about end up hurt, and she can never do damage like this to another person. Not even a mortal.

That is why she surrounds herself with mortals. She knows the rules about keeping a distance, and so she can easily say nothing to them. If only she had exercised such control when it had come to Leonie.

The thing about Leonie is that Zelda sees a different person to the one everyone else sees. To the rest of the world, she is sure Leonie appears as plain, unremarkable, invisible…but Zelda sees a woman who has survived what she senses is the worst kind of family to marry into. Zelda sees beauty in her that nobody else seems to be able to find. How they can fail to see it is rather a mystery to Zelda, though; she doesn’t even know Leonie all that well and she can see it.

Or is it part of her being a witch, that her heart becomes almost obsessively attached to someone whose surname she does not even know? Mortals don’t seem to react like this. And she has seen witches and warlocks flit in and out of lust all her life. They don’t seem to be able to hold on to the attraction to a person for very long.

But this…this isn’t mere attraction. This is fire raging in her gut every time she sees Leonie’s face. This is world-ending guilt every time she remembers the catastrophe she has caused this woman she so reveres to face. This isn’t simply carnal desire – she has known that before and it is nothing like this. That comes and goes, evaporating when it is satisfied. Whether she truly knows the person is usually irrelevant to the desire.

There lies the difference: Zelda’s soul aches to truly know Leonie. To know the cracks (the ones she hasn’t caused) in her heart and the brightness of her spirit that is diminished by the way she has been trapped into living. Zelda wants to know all of this woman, everything that is good and everything that is terrible. All of it. She has never wanted that before. And now she does want it, she has engineered the situation so that she can never have it.

Even if she had not caused the death of that tiny child, the woman she has fallen for is mortal. She is married. It would never be permitted, even without the added problem that her son is buried in the Spellmans’ yard.

These are the thoughts that plague Zelda Spellman as she sits alone in a mortal bar, surrounded by festivity and the occasional fight. The darkness falls outside, but it seeps into her drink, and into her blood with every sip.

Every night, closing time sneaks up on her too soon, and she must go home. There is nowhere else to go. She leaves the town and stumbles in varying degrees of drunkenness home. Most of the time she cannot recall the next morning which route she had taken home. Hilda tries every morning to get a conversation out of her, but Zelda cannot hold a conversation, for she is so drained by her love and guilt – not to mention the increasingly permanent hangover – that it is more than she can give, even to her own sister.

She is almost certain Hilda thinks her cruel, Zelda reflects as she staggers towards home. Who would blame her? All she sees of her sister is the worst she has to offer. It’s nothing short of a wonder Hilda puts up with her at all.

Suddenly, Zelda is at _that_ house. The lights are on. Once again, there are raised voices from the general direction of the building. Zelda wonders what is going on tonight. Has Leonie told her husband about the baby? Has she confronted Rosannah? Has she told her other sons? Has she done anything that needs to be done?

The front door opens, and two figures run out into the yard; one towers over the other, wielding what looks to Zelda to be a skillet. Drunk enough not to care about the consequences of intervening and almost sure he might commit murder if left to his own devices, Zelda opens the gate and darts across the garden; she dives between the two mortals. The man’s hand is raised with the skillet ready to fly through the air. “What in S-” she begins, but then remembers she cannot say that to a mortal. “What in the _world_ do you think you are doing?!” she growls at the man.

He is huge, but Zelda is not frightened of him in the slightest. After all, his brute strength is no match for her power. “This is none of your business,” he snarls. “Get off my property, woman.”

“No.”

“What did you just say?”

“I cannot in good conscience leave this property in the knowledge that this woman will most likely come to harm,” she says firmly. The words tumble out of her mouth like she has always known she would say them, and yet Zelda is still so drunk that the world tilts every time she moves. “So, no, I will not get off your property.”

He lashes out with the skillet, but Zelda forces his fist to unclench its grip. The skillet falls to the ground with a clatter that deafens her in the relative quiet of the night. She does not know if he does so deliberately or if his arm is merely unbalanced by the sudden lack of weight, but he hits Zelda hard across the face. The blow stings her skin, and it leaves an ache in her jaw.

Leonie gasps and shouts, “Rhoderick!”

Zelda does not care. It is nothing she does not deserve after bringing about the death of this man’s son.

However, Leonie cannot be left here to suffer the same treatment, so Zelda thinks fast. She formulates her plan in a fraction of a moment. “Children rest, children learn, children love, children play, and in everything you do you will be safe,” she mutters hastily under her breath.

“What the hell did you just say to me?” the man demands hotly.

“I said nothing,” Zelda answers him calmly. And she says nothing more to him.

Zelda takes Leonie by the arm and steers her towards the gate, and out of the yard. “What are you doing, Zelda?!” she hisses.

“Keeping you safe.”

“But the children-”

“They’ll be alright.”

“Rosannah killed one of them!” Leonie reminds Zelda, her voice still a harsh whisper.

“They will be safe, I promise you,” Zelda says.

“How can you promise me that?!”

“I need you to trust me, Leonie.”

Leonie stares up at Zelda, her brow knitted into a severely confused frown in the moonlight. “What does that even mean?!”

“It means I know nothing will happen to your children and you ought to trust me when I say that. Come on. Walk me home.”

At the end of the road, under a streetlight and the moon, Leonie stops walking and faces Zelda. “Why did you do that?” she asks. “And your face, oh, my God, what if he broke your jaw?!”

“Funnily enough, I thought you might not wish to be bludgeoned to death with a skillet,” Zelda says coolly, “though I see now that I was perhaps mistaken. And my face is perfectly fine. He didn’t hit me all that hard,” she adds. That last part is a lie, but it is necessary to put Leonie’s mind at ease.

“You could have just called the police.”

She could have. Indeed, she probably should have. But she did not. “I don’t want to fight with you, Leonie.”

Leonie looks down at the ground.

“Please, walk me home. Stay with me tonight.”

When Leonie looks up, Zelda sees it. There’s a comprehension in Leonie’s expression; she knows now that this is as much for Zelda’s comfort as Leonie’s. “You don’t look so great, Zelda,” she says. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

“Not nearly enough.”

With a sigh, Leonie links her arm with Zelda’s, and they walk to the house. Guilt creeps over Zelda yet again; after everything, she has no right to seek comfort in Leonie. She is so small and kind and perfect…to feel her touch sends a combination of peace and panic through Zelda. “You shouldn’t be wasting your life drinking like this, you know,” Leonie tells her sternly. “You’re too bright for that.”

“ _Bright_ ,” scoffs Zelda.

“You are! Surely you must know that?”

Zelda does not say what she thinks – that bright people do not land themselves in these messes. Instead, she says, “I may dress the part and use a proper vocabulary, but I am not _bright_.” It is true, is it not, that she is stumbling drunkenly home? So where is this brightness Leonie claims to see?

“Bright and brave,” Leonie says, her tone decisive. “I’ve never seen any woman stand up to Rory like that. He even dropped the skillet, he was so shocked.”

Of course, Zelda chooses to let Leonie believe that; she need not know that Zelda had forced Rhoderick to drop his weapon.

As they approach Zelda’s home, it occurs to her that Leonie might be upset by the sight of the place. Her baby son is buried here – she has suffered enormous pain between those walls. Leonie, however, seems undaunted as it looms over them. She helps Zelda up the steps to the front door and helps her shed her coat.

Zelda decides to take Leonie to the drawing room, as the kitchen is the last place Leonie will want to go. The first thing she does is pour two glasses of whiskey and pass one to Leonie; Zelda cannot allow herself to sober up. The magnitude of her actions will hit her as soon as the alcohol drains from her blood, and she would very much like to postpone that imminent bout of self-loathing. “Thank you,” Leonie says.

Zelda gives a nod in response and sips her drink.

“Not just for the drink,” she amends her first statement. “For getting between me and Rory. He’s not normally _that_ bad, I swear.”

“I thought he was going to kill you.”

“He might have killed _you_ , Zelda. Did that even cross your mind?”

It had occurred to her, obviously, that if Rhoderick was capable of hitting his own wife with that skillet then he would probably not be too bothered about hitting a perfect stranger with it. She had just not been able to place the necessary value on her life for it to change her decision. “It would have been a better outcome than if he had killed you,” Zelda says into her glass. “You have children who need you.”

Leonie steps forward and places her glass down onto the sideboard. “I’m not sure I agree with you there. My children might need me, but your family needs you, too.”

“Recently, they probably would have found life easier without me.”

“Easier does not necessarily equal better.” She places a hand on Zelda’s cheek, carefully avoiding the side that her husband had slapped. “I cannot figure you out at all, do you know that?”

“Most people have that problem with me. I prefer it that way.”

“But if nobody can figure you out, how can you feel loved?”

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “I don’t,” Zelda murmurs.

She had thought it would be the guilt that would bring her crashing down in the end, but it isn’t. The understanding that there is a far greater hole in Zelda’s life is worse than any slap to the face or guilty conscience. “After all you’ve done for me, do you really think I don’t care for you?” Leonie asks her. It seems she is genuinely baffled by this information. “You’re such a brave, bright, beautiful woman, Zelda. You do things you don’t have to, even put yourself in the firing line, just because it’s right and kind. Do you know how rare that is? Do you know what I would give to find someone like you?”

“You’re ma-”

“Married?” Leonie laughs bitterly. “I’m married because my parents panicked and said I had to marry the first man who showed any interest in me. Why do you think he and his family hate me? They know I never wanted to marry Rory.”

“Why would your parents do that?”

Leonie’s answer is unexpected. She presses her lips into Zelda’s. Too surprised to react, Zelda allows it. And honestly, even if she had been able to react, she doubts she would have stopped it.

Zelda watches Leonie nervously pull away from her; the realisation of how Leonie has ended up in such a horrific position dawns on her. She has ended up here not because she chose the wrong man, but because she was forced to marry that man, and he knows perfectly well it is the last place Leonie wants to be.

She does not know what expression her face is pulling in that moment, but it causes Leonie to hastily say, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to-”

Leonie does not finish that apology. Zelda kisses her, the heady mix of alcohol and desire taking over her body. She allows her mouth to open; Leonie’s tongue warm and sweet, and tinged with the taste of whiskey. Though there is a hunger in Zelda, she is sure to be gentle with Leonie. If anyone in this world needs gentleness, it is Leonie.

But Leonie must be as desirous as Zelda. She, too, is gentle, but her kisses are greedy, and her touch is impatient. Her right hand is already inching up Zelda’s stomach under her blouse, her left arm wrapped around Zelda’s waist, pulling her down into those longing, insatiable kisses. They are so close, so bound together, that Zelda struggles to contain herself. She has her fingers in Leonie’s hair and her breast in Leonie’s hand before she knows it. She hasn’t even noticed the buttons coming undone, or her bra being unhooked.

Zelda walks them backwards clumsily to the sofa, where they fall together, Leonie straddling Zelda. Her mouth moves down Zelda’s throat, her teeth grazing her collarbone…and suddenly Leonie has Zelda stunned. Stunned, and yearning for her to kiss lower and lower.

Everything – the guilt, the desire, the care, the vulnerability – spills out. There are sudden tears falling from Zelda’s eyes. All she knows she can do is reach for an anchor, for a light in the dead of the night, and so her fingers find Leonie’s spare hand, the one that is not massaging Zelda’s breast.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” Leonie says breathlessly.

“No,” Zelda whispers; Leonie’s fingertips blaze a trail down her stomach, so close to where Zelda wants them to be. How could she ever want Leonie to stop this? “Don’t stop.”


	6. Will you look at me, take a good look at me, and tell me who it is that I am?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Will you look at me, take a good look at me, and tell me who it is that I am?" ~ 'Dance to Another Tune' (First Aid Kit)

“ _What_ is going on here?” Hilda hisses at Zelda.

Leonie has left the Spellmans’ house, but not before Zelda had slipped away to heal the mark Rhoderick left on her face, and then joined her family for an excruciatingly awkward breakfast, during which Ambrose had smirked insufferably into his mug and Hilda had watched Zelda like she questioned her sister’s sanity.

“Nothing,” answers Zelda; she tries her utmost remain composed, but she wonders if Hilda can see the utter meltdown occurring beneath the skin. Zelda would quite like to know the answer to Hilda’s question, too, but that will take a great deal of searching.

“Zelda, you had her here overnight!”

“Only in the drawing room.”

And suddenly Hilda is giving Zelda the glare. The one that usually is delivered by Zelda when her siblings behave without thinking. “She’s married! Mortals take that quite seriously, you know!” Hilda is right, of course. It only makes Zelda’s indiscretion all the worse, that her sister is right to confront her about it.

“I have to agree with Hilda here, Auntie Zee,” Ambrose chips in. “Is it such a bright idea to have an affair with a married mortal woman? I can think of about a dozen ways that could go wrong off the top of my head.”

 “She needed a safe place to sleep,” Zelda says. Though not technically a lie, it is not particularly true either.

She knows exactly what Ambrose will say before it even leaves his mouth. It’s almost woefully predictable. “I didn’t hear very much sleeping,” Ambrose retorts with a smirk. “Though I do admire your stamina, auntie.”

Only Ambrose Spellman would have the nerve to say that to his aunt’s face. As infuriating as that cockiness is, Zelda knows it’s the only thing stopping him from losing his mind while under house arrest. “I won’t even dignify that with an answer, Ambrose.”

“You just did.”

She cannot help but roll her eyes.

“I know you like Leonie, Zelds, but-” Hilda begins, but Zelda cannot bear to hear it.

“If I need your input, sister, I shall ask for it.” She keeps her tone sharp, hoping she will be offended enough to walk away.

Hilda does walk away, but Zelda knows better than to believe she has given up. Her sister is nothing if not tenacious. Zelda turns to Ambrose. “I take it you have nothing to add?” she asks him.

“Only that you should tread carefully,” he says. “Be with her if you must, but remember it isn’t only Leonie you might put at risk.”

The children’s faces force their way to the forefront of her mind; she has protected them, yes, but that had gone so terribly wrong before. She can never forgive herself for what happened to baby Simon, and she can never undo it, but she can try to love his mother as best as she can.

“Does she know you’re a witch?” he asks.

Zelda looks up to meet his gaze. She doesn’t need to speak her answer; he already knows.

“You’re building a relationship around lies. It never ends well. I don’t want to see you get hurt,” he admits. “You’re not infallible, auntie. Please try and remember that.”

He leaves her alone at the foot of the stairs to contemplate all that has just been said to her. They mean well – she is not stubborn enough to convince herself that they wish her unhappiness – but they don’t understand. They never could. They might never know the depth to which Zelda’s core cries out for Leonie; she wonders for a moment if they are two halves of the same soul, lost to one another their entire lives, shaped by two different paths.

After all, it is not only in the status of magic or mortal that they differ. Zelda has been relatively fortunate. She has a brother and a sister who both love her, despite their occasional disputes. Her nephew loves her, too. She has her coven, her community, her religion, her family. She is not alone. She has never been alone.

But Leonie is alone in a full house. She has her children, yes, but they are merely children. They cannot help her when she needs it most. And Rhoderick, the husband, he is simply abhorrent. Rosannah sounds even worse. Zelda has heard little of Margaret, Rhoderick’s other sister, but she cannot imagine her being much more palatable than her siblings.

There’s a click in Zelda’s mind that tells her she ought not to think too carefully about that; it will only dishearten her to remember what Leonie is heading home to.

Zelda chooses not to tell Hilda or Ambrose that Leonie’s children are under a protective spell. After her last attempt at protecting Leonie, she would rather they remain oblivious in case it all goes wrong. However, she almost wishes she could tell Hilda. Maybe then her sister would understand that it is nowhere near as simple as liking Leonie. Zelda does not cast spells for mortals she merely likes. On the other hand, though, Hilda might go spare if she realises the lengths to which Zelda cares for Leonie. It’s a double-edged knife at best.

In the afternoon, Zelda’s peace and quiet, after deflecting Ambrose and Hilda’s intrusions, is interrupted. Her brother, Edward, appears at the kitchen door. Zelda sets down her coffee cup and her book and looks up at him. “Edward? This is unexpected,” she says. She struggles to keep the accusatory tone out of her voice, for it is most unlike him to show up unannounced.

“How are you, sister?” he asks her.

“I’m fine,” she answers him, fixing a smile onto her lips. “How are you? How are your studies?” Her brother, ever the scholar, spends most of his time with his head stuck in books, researching everything there is to know about the witch and mortal worlds.

“My studies are progressing well.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“I’m not here to discuss my studies, Zelda,” he tells her. The gentleness of his voice tells him their sister has called in reinforcements. “Hilda tells me you have become close with a mortal woman.”

“Yes, well, your philosophy is that we ought not to isolate ourselves from mortals, is it not?”

“Perhaps, but that does not mean it is wise to have a relationship with a married woman from a volatile family,” he retorts. Though sharp, he does not sound unkind.

“Whether or not it is wise is not your business, brother.” Zelda makes no effort to keep her tone friendly. There is little Edward can say to her that she can’t hear from Hilda or Ambrose. “I am a grown woman and a capable witch. I can handle my own life without interference, thank you.”

Edward sighs. It throws Zelda for a moment; she has been expecting him to argue fiercely against her over this, out of some misguided sense of duty and care. “What is she like?” he asks her. He sits down at the kitchen table and helps himself to coffee.

“What?”

“Leonie. What is she like?”

Zelda doesn’t quite know what to say; she needs a moment to gather her thoughts. He has changed course so quickly – this is not the conversation she began preparing herself for when she saw him standing at the door.

“She’s…” Zelda says, but her mouth goes dry. The coffee does nothing to help.

“Hilda tells me her baby died not too long ago,” Edward says. “That she took the child here for help.”

“Yes. She did.”

She wonders if Hilda also told him the baby is buried in the yard. Just in case she said nothing, though, Zelda does not bring it up.

“But nothing could be done?”

“No. The boy was dead before she reached this house.”

Edward nods solemnly. “What is her husband like?”

Zelda hesitates. Should she tell him what happened last night? She would omit the few moments in which she stopped to protect the children, obviously.

It might only cause Edward to oppose Leonie’s presence in Zelda’s life more vehemently, and she did not want that. Edward’s concerns are never as easy to assuage as Hilda’s; he’s far too shrewd to take Zelda’s proclamations that all is well at face value. Well, Hilda probably doesn’t believe it either, but Edward has the ability to press Zelda harder for information.

“Zelda?”

She realises now that she has not answered his question, and she does not want him to start losing his patience. That would make him more difficult to persuade. “He is not a pleasant man,” she allows cautiously.

“Is he violent?”

“He’s cruel.”

“Are you putting yourself in danger by loving this woman, Zelda?” His expression could not possibly be more serious. He is worried. Despite all that, though, her heart and her mind fixate on his acknowledgement of what she feels for Leonie.

“No,” she finally chooses to say. “No, I can handle the brute.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Absolutely.”

Edward remains unconvinced; she knows that look in her brother’s eyes. He wears it every time he sees his sister falter. “We love you,” he reminds her. “That is the only reason we ask questions.”

Zelda nods her head curtly. She does not trust herself to utter a response to that; it might make her appear angry, and anger is not at the top of her list of emotions at the present moment. It does simmer ever closer to the surface, but it does not simmer for Edward. He is here because he was asked to come. He has done nothing to deserve her wrath.

Perhaps he senses her reluctance to talk any more on the subject, for he gets to his feet. “Very well. I shall leave you – I must return to the Academy – but please remember, Zelda, you can come to me with any problem, and I will do my best to help you find a solution.”

Zelda stands up and smiles. “Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.”

It surprises her when he strides over to her and pulls her into an embrace. He says nothing as he holds her; she feels him kiss her head.

Edward leaves.

Zelda waits until she hears the front door close before she picks up the closest weapon to hand – a cast iron skillet – and stalks out of the kitchen. “Hilda!” she calls melodiously, so that her sister will not be expecting the blow she is about to deliver.

Hilda appears at the top of the stairs leading to the mortuary. Fury finally boils through Zelda’s skin at Hilda’s meddling; Zelda grips the handle of the skillet tightly behind her back and advances on her sister. “What’re you doing, Zelds?”

She lifts the skillet in the air, ready to strike, but the air suffocates her.

This is _exactly_ what Rhoderick tried to do to Leonie last night. Zelda is about to mirror his behaviour. It is a punch in the gut. The skillet falls from her hand, clattering on the floor; Zelda staggers backwards, fumbling for a wall to lean on.

If she behaves like that man, she is no better than he is. Zelda is so ready to declare him a monster, and yet she is so able to behave just as he does. She can be just as terrible, just as monstrous, without holding herself to account.

“Zelda?”

Hilda’s sweet voice echoes through the air that smothers Zelda.

“Zelda, what is it?”

“I was going to kill you,” she says, her voice hoarse as she fights to breathe. “I was going to kill you and bury you in the Cain pit.”

“Yes, I am familiar with the routine of your revenge!” Hilda says. “What’s stopping you?”

“Him.”

“Edward? Ambrose?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“Leonie’s husband.”

“What about him?”

“He tried to hit her with a skillet last night.” It leaves her mouth involuntarily, like it craves to be heard. “I stopped him.”

“He hit you, didn’t he?” asks Hilda. Zelda tries to focus on her sister’s face, frowning as she tries to make sense of what she hears. “I saw the bruise before you went away to heal it.”

Zelda reaches out for Hilda’s arm, gripping it for dear life. “Am I a monster?”

“What?” Hilda half-laughs incredulously. “What? No! A teensy bit foul-tempered sometimes, but you’re not a monster!” Hilda guides her over to the main staircase and sits her down. “What’s all this about, Zelds, hmm? Why are you suddenly asking if you’re a monster?”

The air comes more easily now; it has stopped trying to crush her airways. “What if I’m just like him?” she whispers. Nobody is there to hear them, but still it seems such a forbidden thought. “What if I’m just as cruel and monstrous as the people who treat Leonie so horrifically? What if I hurt her just like they do?”

“Well, it was me you were about to kill, but placing that to one side for a moment,” Hilda says. She smiles as she tries to find the humour in this pit of fear. “What is it about Leonie? Why are you so cut up over her?”

Zelda leans forwards and puts her face in her hands to cover the expression she knows she is wearing. “I’m not cut up. I’m just…” she trails away, unable to tell her sister exactly what she is.

“Zelda, I want to help,” she assures her. “I do. But I can’t help if I don’t understand. I can’t understand if you don’t talk to me.”

The words tumble out of her mouth, one letter at a time, in entirely the wrong order. She barely even hears herself say it. “I think I love her. No. I _know_ I love her.”

“Oh, my love,” sighs Hilda. She puts her arms around Zelda, who allows herself to sink into her sister’s embrace. “I can’t tell you what you should do for the best. What I can tell you, though, is that I will always be here to hold you, whenever you need me.”

Those words almost shatter Zelda and her resolve. She nearly tells Hilda about the spells she has cast, and the guilt she carries for baby Simon’s death, but she stops herself at the very last moment. Instead, she holds her silence, but for the anguished cries of confusion she lets out into her sister’s shoulder.


	7. Holding my breath until I know you're alright, because the water will only rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Holding my breath until I know you're alright, because the water will only rise." ~ 'Islands' (Sara Bareilles)

Zelda lurks behind that same tree, just as she did back in February. She watches Rosie and Maisie wash the windows, Maisie on a ladder cleaning the higher windows, Rosie on a stepladder so she can reach the very top corners of the lower windows. Children so young ought not to be on a ladder of any sort, particularly with no-one to supervise them. It is an accident waiting to happen.

Though Zelda’s protection seems to hold up against their relatives’ tempers, she is unsure that it will prevent them from accidental injury.

Leonie must be inside with one of the relatives, Zelda decides; if she knows Leonie at all, she will be anxious to get outside to make sure her daughters are safe, but something – somebody – must be standing in her path.

It falls to Zelda to watch them. Leonie does not know she is here, of course, but she has taken to loitering behind this tree quite regularly, just checking that nothing has gone too badly awry. She dreads to think what the family might do to Leonie if they discover her affair with the strange woman who lives in the gothic-looking house on the edge of town.

Their meetings have been furtive, with Leonie leaving her children at home; she appears to trust Zelda when she says she knows nobody in that house may harm them. Leonie has a rather peculiar habit of playing with Zelda’s hair when they are at rest. She handles Zelda’s auburn waves like they are liquid gold, precious and beautiful.

She makes Zelda feel beautiful.

In a newly washed window on the first floor, Leonie smiles at Maisie through the shining glass. Though distant in front of the rest of the family, Leonie loves her children. Of that, Zelda is absolutely certain.

“Rosie, I’m coming down!” calls Maisie.

Rosie downs tools and goes to hold the bottom of the ladder so that Maisie may climb down with some stability.

For such a young girl, Maisie seems well-practiced in climbing ladders. Zelda wonders how many times she has been sent up one, for whatever reason.

It happens without warning.

Maisie loses her footing. A petrified screech escapes her. She hangs from the rung, her tiny fingers gripping for dear life. “Maisie!” Rosie calls out, incredibly calmly, given the situation and her age. “Hold on tight! I’ll go and get-”

The girl’s grip fails.

“Maisie!” Rosie screams.

Zelda has been expecting it. She suspends Maisie in the air and runs across the yard. Standing beneath the child, Zelda lets her fall, straight into her arms.

“You’re alright,” Zelda assures Maisie as she shifts the little one’s shaking body. Maisie throws her arms around Zelda’s neck, trembling from head to foot.

Rosie stands frozen, wide-eyed and speechless.

“Not a word about it, either of you,” she commands them, just loud enough for them to hear. They both nod – Zelda feels Maisie’s head move against her hair. They are smart girls. They know not to broadcast the mortally impossible act Zelda has just committed.

Leonie runs out of the front door at the same moment Maisie bursts into howls of shocked tears. Zelda strokes Maisie’s hair and hushes her gently.

“Zelda?” Leonie says incredulously. However, her child’s cries put her confusion out of her mind, at least for the moment. “Maisie! Is she hurt?!”

“She’s fine,” Zelda says calmly. “Just a little shaken.”

“But she must’ve fallen at least ten feet!”

“Calm yourself, Leonie,” Zelda reminds her; she glances pointedly over Leonie’s shoulder to remind her that Rosannah is more than likely standing at the front door. “Your daughter is perfectly alright. Though she should never have been up a ladder at all, at her age,” she adds, loud enough that whoever observes them, for Zelda knows Leonie must always be watched in this house, will hear. As remote a possibility as it is, she dares to hope that an apparent outsider noticing the use the children are put to might persuade them to stop sending small children up ladders to wash windows.

She tries to lean forward to let Maisie down, but Maisie only clings tighter to Zelda’s torso. “You’re alright, Maisie,” she says gently. “You’re going to be fine.” It does nothing to loosen Maisie’s grip. Zelda sighs; the last thing she needs is for Leonie’s children to get attached to her, and she definitely could do without the rest of the family seeing it.

On the other hand, Leonie is right about one thing: Maisie _has_ just fallen over ten feet, just not in the manner Leonie assumes she has. The poor child must be traumatised, despite not being injured.

Rubbing Maisie’s back soothingly with the palm of her hand, Zelda says to Leonie, “May I come inside, just until we settle Maisie?”

Leonie hesitates and turns to look at the door. Rosannah steps out into Zelda’s sight. “Come in,” she says. Her tone is welcoming, but Zelda cannot trust it; her face is austere. Not that she is ugly – she is far from it – but she looks like a woman who would rather see Zelda drop down dead than carry her niece inside. Zelda knows Rosannah only allows it because she has no choice. She does not know that Zelda knows what she is, and Zelda is not foolish enough to bring the subject up.

Rosannah leads them to the kitchen, where Zelda sits down on an old wooden chair at the table and helps Maisie wriggle until she sits on her lap, still sobbing with fright. Zelda is out of her comfort zone here. Midwives deliver babies and hand them over to their mother to comfort. This child seems to have chosen her for comfort, and Zelda is unsure what it is she should do. Instinct tells her to rock Maisie, but she knows it will make her look foolish.

Leonie watches from the other side of the table; Zelda can see the cogs move behind her eyes as she tries to understand how her child has just fallen from a ladder and survived without so much as a grazed elbow. In retrospect, it may have been more sensible of Zelda to let Maisie fall but control the speed so that she only suffered scrapes and bruises. It would have led to Leonie believing Maisie to be lucky to have escaped so lightly. But in the moment, she had wanted to catch the child before she could be hurt, and now Leonie knows there is no way that girl hit the ground at all.

The questions that burn in Leonie’s eyes are not accusatory, though.

No, what Zelda sees is unbridled gratitude and confusion…and trust. Leonie trusts Zelda.

How can she trust anyone when she lives under this roof, with these people? Surely she ought to be demanding explanations, accusing Zelda of all sorts of trickery and deceit.

“What the hell happened?” asks Rosannah. “How did you manage to catch her?”

Zelda doesn’t answer. She has no lie ready.

“Maisie was hanging on, Auntie Rosannah,” Rosie pipes up unexpectedly. All eyes turn to her, except for Maisie’s, for she is still crying into Zelda’s chest. “Zelda was walking down the road and saw. She ran over to us and told Maisie to let go so she could catch her.”

Rosannah appears to accept this version of events; she turns her back to them to make tea. It does not surprise her that Rosannah makes tea for herself and for Zelda, but not for Leonie. It angers her but it does not surprise her in the slightest.

It is only now that Zelda realises she is holding Maisie’s head, rocking her gently in her arms. Maisie is quieter now. Still crying, still upset, but slowly calming down.

Zelda gives Rosie a little smile as thanks for digging her out of that hole with Rosannah.

Leonie, though, seems unconvinced by Rosie’s account. Zelda thinks she knows why, too. Leonie had been at the first-floor window when Maisie fell. She probably would have noticed her lover walking down the road with the view she had from that window. In fact, she certainly would have noticed.

There are times Zelda thinks Leonie knows. Perhaps not the specifics, perhaps not precisely that she is a witch, but once or twice, Leonie has looked at her as she does now, with a general understanding that the woman before her is not quite…normal. Not quite the same as her.

Zelda goes home, once Maisie relinquishes her. She says nothing of the incident to her sister or her nephew, though she ponders it quietly while they eat that evening.

She has unnerved herself. She has let a child, a mortal child, witness her cast a spell over another child. Zelda does no doubt Rosie’s ability to keep her mouth shut, but the fact she has put aside her own standards, broken her own rules yet again, terrifies her. This is not part of life for her. These are things she does not do. But she has done them, all to protect Leonie and her children.

After all, what else could she have done? Let Maisie crash to the ground and break her back? The fall might have killed her. To allow that to happen had always been out of the question.

The doorbell rings after dinner, while Zelda, Hilda and Ambrose gather in the drawing room to read for a while. Truthfully, Zelda is not really reading. She cannot focus. All she ends up doing is going over the same paragraph again and again.

Ambrose gets to his feet to answer the door. Zelda does not look up, but she listens intently. She has an inkling that she knows who it is.

Her inkling turns out to be right.

Ambrose returns with Leonie, Maisie and Rosie at his back. Leonie’s stare immediately finds Zelda. Hilda must surely feel the atmosphere tighten, for she shares a significant look with Ambrose and leads him and the children away to the kitchen for milk and cookies.

Zelda places her book down on the arm of her chair. “Is everything alright, Leonie? Is Maisie-”

“Maisie is fine,” Leonie interrupts her. She seems nervous. Like she foresees disaster.

“Then what is it?”

“It doesn’t add up,” Leonie says slowly. “You weren’t walking down the road. I’d have seen you. I’d have noticed you were walking past. I always do if I’m near the front windows.”

Zelda almost smiles; she knows Leonie well. Probably better than she ought to, it is true, but she understands how Leonie thinks.

“So where were you? In the yard?”

“No.”

“Then where, Zelda?” she demands. Her voice becomes more strained, filled with inexplicable urgency.

“I was behind the tree just outside the yard,” Zelda explains quickly, standing up and stepping over to Leonie. “I really had been walking past the house, to begin with, but I saw Maisie up the ladder and decided to make sure she would be safe.”

“I don’t see how you could make sure she was safe, though,” Leonie says. “If she was going to fall, she was going to fall. Nothing you could do would stop it from happening.”

Zelda stiffens slightly; it is a valid point, and one she struggles to find a dismissal for.

“I didn’t hear you outside,” she continues. “The front door was open, Zelda. I heard Maisie scream. I heard Rosie tell her to hold on. I’d have heard you shout to Maisie to let herself drop down. The first I knew you were there was when I saw you holding Maisie.”

Leonie takes a step forward and stares up into Zelda’s eyes, as if compelling her to tell the truth.

“So, what _really_ happened?”

“Satan forgive me,” Zelda mutters under her breath, so low that Leonie won’t hear her properly. She puts her hand to her forehead. There is no way out of this. No way that doesn’t involve losing Leonie, anyway. If she lies, she must be brutal and get rid of Leonie from her life. If she tells the truth, Leonie is sure to hate her.

There is a sparkle in Leonie’s eyes Zelda has rarely seen. She has come to learn that look, the one Leonie dons when her heart is fit to burst.

But something else plays in the light. It might well be love, Zelda wonders. But no love is unconditional, surely.

The light dances in Leonie’s eyes. It persuades Zelda to give Leonie the truth. The freedom to walk away and hate Zelda, rather than have yet another person manipulate her. No matter what, Zelda loves Leonie enough to afford her that freedom of knowing her lover does love her.

“There is something you need to know about me,” Zelda says quietly. Her voice trembles as violently as Maisie’s body had done earlier. “About all of my family.”

“Spit it out, Zelda.”

“I’m a…” she begins, but her courage falters. Nothing will ever be the same if she says it. But Leonie deserves it. She deserves the truth she asks for. “I am a witch.”

Leonie stares at her blankly.

“The Spellmans are witches. And warlocks,” she adds as an afterthought.

“What, black cats and broomsticks?” Leonie asks. She half-laughs, though Zelda knows she does so out of shock and disbelief rather than derision.

“Not exactly,” Zelda replies carefully, “but we do have…power.”

“Magic, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Leonie steps back, hand over her mouth, stifling another shocked bark of a laugh. Zelda has stopped breathing. Her chest might explode, but she cannot breathe until she knows Leonie’s reaction. How much her lover will now hate her. “So, what did you do today? When Maisie fell?”

“She _was_ holding onto the ladder, just as Rosie said, but she let go,” Zelda says. “I suspended her in the air until I crossed the yard and stood beneath her. I let her fall only when I knew I would catch her.”

“I see,” Leonie says. She sits down in the chair Ambrose had vacated to answer the door. “I think I need a drink.”

Zelda obliges; she pours a glass of whiskey and hands it carefully to Leonie. “I need you to understand,” Zelda says, “that I would never harm you, or your children.”

Realisation melts slowly into Leonie’s beautiful face. “The children. This is how you knew they were safe, even though Rory was in a temper.”

Zelda gives her a single nod of her head. “Yes. There was no way Rhoderick could have touched them that night. We call it a protection spell.”

Silence falls. Air still does not come easily to Zelda, who awaits the announcement that Leonie wants nothing more to do with her.

“Why?” Leonie asks suddenly. “Why use it to protect my children?”

The question catches Zelda off guard, and she must remind herself not to mention her complicity in what happened to poor baby Simon. “They are _your_ children, Leonie,” Zelda tells her. “I did it because they are your children and you love them.”

“You care about me? Enough to protect my children?”

“Of course.”

Leonie stands up. The whiskey glass shakes a little in her hand. Her unoccupied hand reaches for Zelda’s head, gently pulling her close. Much to Zelda’s bewilderment, Leonie kisses her. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Air floods Zelda’s lungs. Breathing is easier now.

She leans in to kiss Leonie; she smiles – she cannot hold it back – into her lips.

There will be more questions. Zelda knows that. For now, though, she can love Leonie, for Leonie has not run from her. She does not ask why Leonie does not run. She simply accepts it. The decision is Leonie’s to make, after all. Zelda is just thankful she has chosen to stay with her.


	8. There could be winds of change in my auburn hair, but I’ll tie it back for now, and when the bitter breeze carries a trace of fear, we’ll persevere somehow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There could be winds of change in my auburn hair, but I’ll tie it back for now, and when the bitter breeze carries a trace of fear, we’ll persevere somehow." ~ 'Beautiful Girl' (Sarah McLachlan)

The summer is warm. Hot, even. The sun blazes down on the Spellmans through June and July, though the storm clouds do not relent in their gathering. At her lover’s behest, Zelda keeps her distance from that family; she does not do to them what they deserve. Instead, she protects Leonie, Maisie and Rosie as best she can.

There is a point at which that will have to go out the window. Zelda knows it. Leonie knows it. Neither speaks of it.

It comes. It always does, in the end. Sooner or later, it comes, and it usually is catastrophic.

In the old days, Zelda might have fought it, tried to push it back. She might even have beaten it. Now, though, there is too much potential for collateral damage. Hilda, Ambrose, Edward, and Leonie, for a start. They can fight alongside her, of course, but the children cannot.

The two boys, Zelda learns, are Margaret’s sons. That’s the reason they are not put to work as Rosie and Maisie are. The favouritism isn’t even veiled. Sometimes Zelda wonders how they can live with themselves, treating other people – little children – that way. There must be something fundamentally wrong with them. Something that malfunctions in their brains. Or their hearts. If they even have hearts.

Under the strain of lying to her husband, Leonie becomes anxious. Permanently anxious. Always worried. It even begins to make her vomit, Zelda holding her hair behind her head while she retches violently.

Leonie starts to lose weight. Weight she cannot afford to lose.

Her body begins to weaken, leaving her feeling faint on a regular basis. She swears blind that her living conditions have not changed, that it can be attributed to stress and anxiety. Zelda is not entirely convinced; it seems such a drastic reaction, and she has always had the option of breaking things off with Zelda if the pressure becomes too intense.

They work like enemies. No, not enemies. Like people who don’t know one another at all. Like they’ve never spoken to each other in their lives.

They do talk, though. The problem is that Leonie is quite skilled in diverting conversation away from the things that concern Zelda most. She does not wish to discuss it but, though Zelda would love nothing more than to be able to honour Leonie’s wishes, the matter cannot simply be left to fester.

It’s on the last day of July, with the sun beating on their faces through clear skies and the two girls playing out in the front yard, that Zelda decides the issue must be forced. Leonie, for her part, does not fight with her. She simply holds her silence as she reads her book on the front porch. “I understand it’s not easy,” Zelda says; this must be the third time in a week she has attempted to have this conversation. “I know that. And if it will help you stay well, we can end this here.”

“I don’t want this to end.” So quiet, yet so final. If it were anyone but Zelda, that would be the discussion over with. But it is Zelda.

“Then talk to me, Leonie,” Zelda implores her. “Please. I can’t do a single thing to help unless you tell me what is wrong with you. If the problem really is anxiety, I’m sure Hilda would happily-”

“I don’t need any calming potions,” Leonie bites at her. There is a warning in those words. Zelda hears it, but she cannot heed it.

“Then what _do_ you need?”

Leonie does not answer that question. Indeed, she gazes into the book like it might swallow her up and save her.

“You cannot possibly expect me to sit back and watch you waste away to nothing,” Zelda persists.

“I won’t.”

“At the rate you’re going, Leonie, you might.”

She closes her book and sets it down on the table at her side. “You’re a midwife, aren’t you?”

“I am a midwife, yes,” Zelda says. “Pregnancy is rather different for witches than it is for mortals.”

Leonie stares at her, her expression rather impatient. “Same end result, though,” she reasons.

“That’s true.”

Silence falls again, leaving Zelda with more questions than answers. As always, Zelda is wary of offering up information, in case it does nothing but mess Leonie up further. The woman is already walking a very fine wire; one minor blow might knock her sideways.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Leonie snaps. “You wouldn’t take a hint if it jumped up and broke your nose, Zelda!”

Surprised by this outburst, Zelda searched Leonie’s face for clues as to what has her so wound up. “What are you-”

“I’m pregnant,” she spits out, cutting Zelda off before she can end her question. “There you go. I’m pregnant.”

Zelda cannot say anything. Whatever she has been setting herself up for, it is not _that_. “What?” Zelda says, uncertain that she has even heard Leonie correctly.

“I. Am. Pregnant,” she replies, in a tone of voice one might use when talking to someone particularly dense.

“But…”

“Funnily enough, Zelda, I thought it might arouse suspicion if I were to stop sleeping with my husband,” she says bitterly; Zelda reckons she is replying to a facial expression rather than a word, which only makes Zelda wonder how confused she must look right now. “So, yes, I’ve ended up pregnant.”

She gets to her feet and strides away; Zelda hesitates at the thought of following her. She might make it all worse. Zelda is good and making things worse.

She cannot say how long she sits there. It might be a minute, or perhaps an hour. When she goes inside, she finds Leonie with Ambrose and Hilda, sipping from a glass of water. “I’m sorry,” Zelda said quietly. Ambrose’s face betrays his shock at hearing his aunt apologise, but she ignores this. “I didn’t react the way I should have.”

Leonie looks up at her. “It’s alright. I know it’s a shock.”

Zelda sits down at the table between Hilda and Leonie. Ambrose frowns at them. “What is going on this time?” he grumbles.

Leonie puts her face in her hands and moans, “I’m pregnant.”

 Zelda sighs and puts her hand on Leonie’s shoulder. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m not getting rid-”

“That isn’t what I mean,” Zelda says quickly. “I mean, how do you want to proceed for the next…however many months.”

Zelda looks to her sister for help. It isn’t something she would normally do, but this situation is not even within the realms of normality. “You can stay here, my love,” Hilda says kindly. “Your girls, too. We have plenty of space for you all.”

“Rosannah will take the children. She knows that will hurt me more than anything, and if I leave Rory, she _will_ want to hurt me.”

“We can deal with that,” Ambrose says. “We can deal with whatever they throw at you.”

“With magic?” Leonie asks cautiously.

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Zelda, still thrown by the fact that they are here discussing this at all, tries to figure out how to convince Leonie that it might be a better idea to let witches deal with that family than it is to back to them whilst pregnant. Logically, it must be safer for Leonie and her children to be here, with Zelda, Hilda and Ambrose, the family of the High Priest.

However, Zelda has not even begun to explain to Leonie the Church of Night, or Edward’s role in it, or Ambrose’s house arrest, or how witches are educated. She thinks it might be too much for her, and besides, Leonie has not asked about those things. Leonie has asked about the powers the Spellmans have, the festivals they celebrate and the spells they can perform, but nothing much more than that. Nothing that delves into their religion or laws. Nothing that might make her run away screaming.

Now is the time to begin that conversation, but to tread with great care, too.

“Our brother,” Zelda begins, gesturing between herself and Hilda, “is the High Priest of our coven, and he is a skilled warlock to boot. He would never let anything happen to you or your children.”

“But we’re not part of your coven.”

“No,” Zelda agrees, “but you are the partner of one of this coven’s witches. You are the partner of the High Priest’s sister.”

Leonie looks at Hilda, then at Ambrose, and then back to Zelda. “I’ve never even met Edward. How am I supposed to trust him with my children’s safety?”

That can be easily remedied, as Edward will come when his sisters call him. However, having him show up right now might only unnerve Leonie.

Hilda seems to know this, too, for she suggests, “We could ask Edward to dinner, couldn’t we, Zelds? You could meet him, talk to him, get to know him a bit.”

“And Uncle Edward has the utmost respect for mortals,” adds Ambrose. “He will see you as one of us, witch or not, so don’t worry about that.”

For a moment, Zelda wonders if they have overloaded Leonie with information; she says nothing in response to that proposal. She sits, staring at the table. “Or, if you’d rather, we can ask Edward to-”

“No,” Leonie finally says. “No, dinner is fine.”

“This evening, or would you rather wait a little while?” asks Hilda. Zelda internally rolls her eyes; she has allowed herself to forget how incomparably kind her sister is. She puts Zelda to shame, really, with her immediate understanding of how hearts splinter under pressure and seal themselves in defence.

Leonie smiles at Hilda, though Zelda knows she only does so to keep Hilda from fussing over her. “This evening is fine.”

“Then that is settled,” Hilda says cheerfully. “Better get started on dinner!”

Zelda keeps her groan to herself; Hilda will probably find a way to make the entire introduction agonisingly uncomfortable. She doesn’t mean to, of course, but sometimes her sunny disposition makes things more awkward. Zelda feels she should come over as optimistic as Hilda, and is always embarrassed that she can’t; it’s simply not in her nature. Sometimes, she feels inadequate because she cannot be outwardly ecstatic, even when she flies higher than any bird.

“I’m going to get Maisie and Rosie in and ask them what they’d like for dinner,” Hilda says happily. “If that’s okay with you,” she adds to Leonie.

The smile Leonie flashes at Hilda this time is genuine. “Of course,” she says; she almost sounds surprised that Hilda would ask her permission. She probably _is_ surprised, Zelda muses, if her sisters-in-law pay no heed to her position as the girls’ mother.

Hilda takes her leave, Ambrose close behind her, and Zelda is left alone with Leonie. “We will find a way forwards, Leonie,” she assures her. “It will be alright, in the end.”

“In the end…” Leonie repeats. Her words are barely a whisper.

Zelda takes Leonie by both hands and waits until she looks around at her. “I will make sure everything works out as best it can,” she says. “I love you – I would never knowingly let anything harm you or any of your children.”

The way Leonie looks at Zelda melts her fiercely guarded heart. “I love you, too,” she replies with a grin; her fingers intertwine with Zelda’s, locking them together.

Unbreakable. That’s what they are. Nothing will tear them asunder. Nothing ever could. With Hilda, Ambrose and Edward at their side, surely there can be no doubt that they will, eventually, prevail. They must. The only other option is that Rhoderick, Rosannah and Margaret prevail, and the consequences of that outcome are unthinkable. What might become of Leonie and those children if left in the hands of those people…would she even survive it?

Zelda wonders if that is the reason Leonie has lost such a lot of weight. Despite being pregnant and suffering from sickness, she must not be getting any more food than she normally would in that house. She never has been well fed there, but to do that now is even more dangerous. It puts both Leonie and her unborn child at risk. Put that together with her skillet-wielding husband, and Zelda concludes that Leonie going home is a disaster waiting to happen.

“You are one of us,” Zelda tells her gently. “We will get through this, and we’ll do it together. My brother is a brilliant man. He has an answer for everything – that’s what makes him so irritating!”

Leonie lets out a laugh. “Sibling love,” she chuckles.

“I do love him,” Zelda says, “but what sister isn’t infuriated by her know-it-all older brother?”

It makes Leonie laugh, and Zelda loves nothing more than to hear her lover’s laugh.

“You’ll like him, though. Edward is exceptionally clever, and he is compassionate. You don’t have to worry about meeting him, not at all.”

Hilda and Ambrose return, their presence heralded by Maisie and Rosie’s chattering. They seem more at ease here than they do in their own home. They behave more like children should. “Looks like we’re doing a lamb roast, and these two little madams want to make cupcakes.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Hilda,” Leonie says. “They’re just trying their luck because they know you’re a soft target,” she explains, her eyebrow raised at her daughters.

“It’s no trouble,” Hilda says airily.

Ambrose lifts the girls and sits them down on the countertop so they can watch Hilda prepare the food. He gets on brilliantly with those girls; it rather surprises Zelda. She would not have pegged him for the sort who will happily chat away with children. Part of her wonders if he’s just grateful for some company that isn’t his aunts and uncle.

The scene of domestic normality shelters them all for a few hours, for they all know that when Edward comes, the hard truth of this situation must be both faced and conquered, one way or another.


	9. I climbed across the mountaintops, swam all across the ocean blue; I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules; but baby, I broke them all for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I climbed across the mountaintops, swam all across the ocean blue; I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules; but baby, I broke them all for you." ~ 'The Story' (Brandi Carlile)

“If I’m to be honest, sister, I’m unsure of how we ought to proceed.”

That throws Zelda; Edward generally does know what to do with most problems. It’s part of the reason he has climbed the ladder to High Priest with relative ease. However, she is glad now that she has chosen to meet with him before Leonie does. They sit in his office at the Academy, undisturbed by the whirlwind of crises brewing outside of these walls, and she has been able to forearm him with enough information for him to construct at least the skeleton of a plan before being faced with Leonie at the dinner table.

“Nor am I,” confesses Zelda. “I’m failing her.” She allows her guard to slip a little and leans forward, elbows on the edge of Edward’s desk, face in her hands.

He stands up and walks around to sit in the chair next to hers; with his hand falling gently onto her wrist, he tells her firmly, “You are not failing her. You are standing by her, treating her with love and kindness. You’re one of the few people who has not failed her.”

It is not typical of Edward to say such a thing; he usually has the good sense to leave Zelda in peace to wrestle down her own self-doubt. Sometimes, though, even he feels he must intervene. It would normally be Hilda who would speak of it before anyone else.

“I want to help her,” Zelda said, reaffirming her desire to do what is right by Leonie.

“I know you do, but we do need to figure our what will best help her. If we take the wrong course, we may do more damage than good.”

Zelda falls silent for a few minutes. The angry, vengeful part of her would thoroughly enjoy tormenting those who so successfully make Leonie unhappy. The other, more lawful, side to her screams that it would be foolish to be vengeful now. Edward is right when he warns that they might hurt Leonie more than heal her if they choose the wrong way to proceed.

But they – that awful family – will learn nothing. They will see a lack of consequence as a victory. They will never comprehend how they are wrong unless someone spells it out to them. Zelda would so enjoy seeing that, but wouldn’t it make her as bad as them if she were to do it? She is not mindlessly vengeful; she has her wits about her, and she knows right from wrong. Whether or not she heeds her own moral instinct, however, is another matter.

Edward’s moral compass is better calibrated than Zelda’s. She knows that. It irks her from time to time – just another thing her brother excels at – but she cannot deny it. How can she deny it when it is so glaringly obvious?

“The first priority must be to get Leonie, Rosie and Maisie out of that house and to safety,” Edward tells her wisely. “Indeed, that may be our only true goal.”

“Well, yes, but how do we keep them from bothering her once she is out?” asks Zelda. “They will not leave her alone. I know it, Edward.”

“So do I,” he sighs. “They sound like the type who would go to great lengths to exact revenge, or reclaim what they perceive to belong to them.”

“From what I’ve observed of them, I would say they see Leonie as their maid.”

“I am wary of the lesson-teaching route, sister, you know that.”

“But?”

“But sometimes it is the only weapon left to us.”

Zelda smiles wryly; even her perfect brother is not totally averse to wreaking havoc upon the cruel and the cowardly. “What do you have in mind?” she asks of him.

“I don’t quite know yet,” he admits carefully. “But even in this we must proceed with caution.”

She internally rolls her eyes at her brother and his bloody caution. Nothing needs to be as nuanced as Edward always manages to make things. He sees potential issues that exist only to him; nobody else ever sees them. There are times Zelda can believe he creates problems that simply do not exist.

Edward smiles gently at her. “We will find a way through this. We are Spellmans, after all.”

There is a bizarre moment in which Zelda is intensely conscious of her relationship to Edward. What would their parents say if they could see their children conspiring like this over the fate of a mortal? Would they be disgusted? Or would they praise their son and daughter for their humanity? Would they be proud that they want to keep this woman and her children safe?

It has never been so clear that Zelda and Edward’s world is not the one their parents had walked. This situation probably wouldn’t even have arisen in their parents’ day, segregated as witches and mortals had been. They still are, to an extent, but not by the same fear and hatred their parents would have experienced.

Edward and Zelda decide to leave the rest of their discussion until they are with Leonie, and can hear her opinion, as well as Ambrose and Hilda’s. Their input, though Zelda would never dream of telling them so, will be invaluable.

* * *

 

Rosie and Maisie are so immensely proud of their cupcakes that even Zelda has to smile. Leave it to children to find the light inside the darkness, in the smallest of pleasures. They have found happiness in frosting and sprinkles and licking wooden spoons with Hilda. Kindness moves through them all like the air they breathe. It floats along the table and into their hearts and minds; to Leonie it must be a welcome relief from her usual surroundings.

In the world around them, the air seems to clean itself of all the hatred and the fear that had lingered earlier in the day, of all the putrid smoke that suffocates them. It falls in mists of ice that clear the lungs and the mind, but leaves the heart beating uncertainly – nobody can see what comes towards them in freezing fog. If they could, nobody would lose the road.

As the pressure of what she knows will come mounts, Zelda finds a wish to cancel dinner creep up on her. Now, she wants to deal with things herself. She needs control of the situation. Involving Edward is a mistake – he will only take it all into his own hands. He doesn’t know Leonie. He doesn’t understand her like Zelda does. How can he make any decision that affects her life? Not to mention the fate of her Maisie and Rosie. Children who have been mistreated their entire short lives, and whose futures now balance on any decision made by their mother, their father, their aunts and the Spellmans.

Zelda decides, though, that she must proceed with love, but also with intelligence. She must not allow her love for Leonie or her need to protect her lover cause her to make the wrong choices. That would just make everything a million times worse. It will never be that her choices will be perfect – she can wholeheartedly accept that – but her good intent must not be warped by fear and panic, or anything else that hurtles her way.

A small hand lands on Zelda’s. “Are you okay?” asks Leonie.

Zelda smiles at her. “Of course. I’m fine.”

A lie is better than the truth at this stage, Zelda reasons with herself. A lie puts Leonie’s mind at ease. It will let her feel like Zelda knows what she is doing, that she and her children are safe in this house. Those are promises Zelda cannot guarantee. How can she? The future is not hers to see. She cannot predict how Rhoderick and her sisters will react – all she can be reasonably sure of is that their reaction will not be pleasant to behold.

Leonie’s gaze cuts through Zelda until she can no longer bear it; she gets to her feet and wanders out of the house. Before she knows it, she is standing at Simon’s grave. The tree they had planted is still an infant, like the poor soul whose resting place it protects.

She should have known from the moment she agreed to bury Simon that she was doomed. All of the rules Zelda has lived by her entire life now lie in shards in the dirt, just waiting to make her feet bleed with every step she dares to take. The idea of burying a child in secret was once unthinkable to Zelda. That she might cross that line for a mortal was – and sometimes still is – simply outside of all she knows how to process.

There are times she wonders if she ought to give the whole thing up entirely; the risks are too high, and it isn’t only Zelda who will be in peril. It might be kindest to let Leonie go, to protect her from afar but never feel her touch again.

When she considers breaking it off, though, her heart wails like a banshee mourning the death of the hardest love Zelda has ever known. Even now, silent screams of grief tear through her at the very thought of never being loved like this ever again.

Now that she knows the feeling, how can she possibly relinquish it?

It might kill her.

And then there’s this unborn child. She cannot possibly send a new, unharmed soul into a home where it will surely be bruised and broken until it grows to be as damaged as its mother. So what is Zelda supposed to be? Is she supposed to play happy families, give these children two mummies and have them grow up mortals in a witches’ coven? Would that be fair to them?

On the other hand, would it be fair to send them out into the world with their single mother, who will be plagued by the wounds their father inflicted on her? Can she put Leonie through that? Can she pull the rug from under her like that?

And then there’s the question of how Zelda’s involvement might influence the children. The last thing she wants is for any of those children to learn to be like her. For Satan’s sake, she’s so unlovable that it still astounds her that Leonie is able to love her, and there are still moments that she cannot trust that it is true. That isn’t a life she would wish on those children.

A hand falls gently onto Zelda’s shoulder. Startled to be ripped from her own mind, she turns her head to find her nephew at her side. “Are you alright, Auntie Zee?”

“Yes,” she lies.

He knows, though. She can see the scepticism in his face. That’s the thing about house arrest – Ambrose now knows his aunts infuriatingly well. There is very little Zelda can hide from him, no matter which mask she chooses to wear. “Are you frightened?”

The question catches Zelda off guard; she inwardly curses herself for letting her breath catch in her throat. “I’m fine. It’s Leonie we ought to be concerned with.”

“And we are,” Ambrose assures her earnestly, “but I’m concerned about you, too. You’re not yourself.”

“In what way?” Zelda demands. Defensiveness invades her tone, an unwelcome third party to the conversation.

Ambrose’s mouth quirks into a brief and rather sad smile, and he takes her hand. He lifts it in front of her, extended outwards, and leaves her hand flat in the air between them. It trembles.

Zelda, speechless, stares at her nephew. Even she had not noticed that her hands have been shaking. There has been far too much else to be preoccupied with.

She instantly wishes she had admonished him for his interference; that he can see her torment only breaks her guard. A stone seems lodged in her throat as she chokes on all the things she knows to which she should confess, but she lacks the courage to say aloud.

It shoots through her veins, hot and acidic, until it burns her eyes. The moment that first tear falls, it shatters her.

She is not alright.

She is unsure.

She is in love.

She is exhausted.

She is insecure.

She is terrified.

Ambrose brushes her hair out of her eyes and pulls her into a tight embrace. His arms are her barracks while she breaks down under the crushing weight of it all, sobbing into his shoulder. He does not try to reason with her or demand any explanation; he just holds her, one hand gently stroking her head.

“Yes,” she cries. “Yes, Ambrose, I am frightened.”

He holds her closer. “That’s alright, auntie. We’re here for you, like you always are for us.”


End file.
